Le Petit Prince Futa
by y-junkie
Summary: The tale of the little prince who did not come from an asteroid. Sawada Tsunayoshi could only wish this was a matter as simple as baobabs and a traveling alien-child.
1. Prologue

**LE PETIT PRINCE FUUTA**

_a.k.a., A Crime Against the Classic French Tale, and _

_Hiiiiiiiiek, The Tenth Vongola Boss Would Rather Be in a Giant Space War_

**_Original book by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. Characters and Katekyo! Hitman Reborn by Akira Amano._**

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**Prologue: The End of Sawada Tsunayoshi**

&

This was it, thought Sawada Tsunayoshi. He was surely, definitely, most certainly _going to die._

&

It began at breakfast time, before he went to school.

It was the usual morning at the Sawada household, with everyone—I-Pin, Lambo, Reborn, Bianchi, Maman, and Tsuna—coming together to eat before they began their daily activities.

On this particular Tuesday morning, however, Lambo had pounced on the omelet with his two greedy paws before anyone could even have sighted the day's menu (the idiot cow had broken his record by about 0.2 seconds), at least until he had begun screaming "PAHAHA, LAMBO GOT IT FIRST!" and had run around the table, omelet held above his head like a prize. Like clockwork, bullets, dumplings, and some poisoned leftovers from last night's dinner began flying around in a lethal, free-for-all food fight.

Maman, who had heard the noise created by the little scuffle, poked her head out from the kitchen and chirped, "Now, now, kids, there's plenty of omelet for everyone, so play nice!" Tsuna, on the other hand, had survived this kind of situation long enough to be conditioned into responding with a helpless, anguished stare at the commotion. The last time he tried to interfere he had gotten a chock-full of Bianchi's poisoned onigiri, and he was confined to his bed for an entire week.

(From the safety of their homes, the good families of Namimori had all sought refuge under their bedcovers, cowering in fear, as the sound of plates breaking, bullets, and screaming—oh my God, was that a _kid?_—ripped loud and sharp through the crisp, early morning air.)

But all this, of course, was perfectly normal.

What Tsuna did not expect, however, was Lambo aiming the 10-year bazooka at his bullet-ridden hair, firing, and _NOT _turning into Lambo from 10 years later. Instead, Tsuna felt something big and ticklish hit him on his forehead, and _another_ something yank him forward by the collar of his nighties, dragging him through a colorful tube-like space.

Tsuna looked back to see no form of ground whatsoever beneath him. _I'mgonnapukeI'mgonnapukeI'mgonnapuke,_ he thought, and his body agreed fervently; bile was rising up his throat. The little trip felt like riding an airplane, only that said plane would have been shot with a couple of dying-will bullets and, consequently, would be zooming at a time-warping hyper-speed. Still, dying will or no, Tsuna _hated_ planes. By this time both his ears were popping painfully and the hair whipping against his face were stinging his eyes, but his throat refused to scream even during the obviously abnormal and frightening development.

Probably because he was leaving a trail of bile instead. Oh crap.

Disgusting as that was, Tsuna had no time to even despair over his embarrassing mess as he was finally thrown back into reality, and the flying-sensations-along-a-colorful-and-currently-pukey-tube-thingy stopped. He opened his eyes, breathed, and promptly choked on a mouthful of something hot, coarse, and grainy.

_...Sand?_

Tsuna wiped the dirt off his lips. _What have those guys gotten me into this time?_, he groaned. Tsuna pushed himself off with shaky arms, and looked up.

He saw a couple of men in robes, and some camels, from the corner of his eye.

But dead center on his line of sight were AK-47s, all twenty or so of them, glinting madly under the high sun, and every single one aimed straight at his face.

Yep, this was it, thought Sawada Tsunayoshi. He was surely, definitely, most certainly _going to die._


	2. Chapter 1

**LE PETIT PRINCE FUUTA**

_Original novel Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. Characters and Katekyo Hitman Reborn! by Akira Amano._

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**Chapter 1: If It Weren't For Those Bloody Englishmen**

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These AK-47s were a well-maintained bunch. They weren't just flashy; with the pull of the trigger, all ten [1] went off with a loud _pingpingpingping_! at an almost immediate and lethally efficient reaction speed.

As the bullets dealt with the various laws of physics, Tsuna was allowed a few seconds to watch full-color projections of the regrettably short, tragic and abnormal life he had lived thus far. He winced at the memories of his heartless home tutor, an unrequited teenage love (_Oh, Kyoko-chan_, he thought sadly), poisoned bentos, bombs, swords, Mafia crazies, and kids with 10-year bazookas. In retrospect, though, even as the unwilling and maltreated Tenth boss of the Vongola who ever so lives with an impending sense of doom, Tsuna actually did have a lot of fun…

But now, he was going to die. Under a spray of _real_ bullets. Made out of _real metal_ and not digestive fluids of transforming chameleons.

Tsuna coughed as the wind blew sand against his face; he distractedly noted that some English song had begun playing from somewhere on his left. [2] He took little comfort from how similar the scene was to the final moments of the samurai heroes in Yamamoto's _chanbara_ movies, the only differences being, a) the movies had more swords, and b) the music had less bass and more frantic koto-playing.

He closed his eyes. _So this is goodbye, Kyoko-chan! Everyone! _

Finally, after three excruciating seconds worth of flashbacks, Tsuna gulped down a sob, and waited.

&

And waited.

&

And waited.

&

And wai—

"Oi, what the fuck's happening?" Someone yelled.

"S-sir, t-the sand… I think he's being pulled up to heaven!"

"Fucking blow me if he's going_ anywhere _untilwe're properly fucking done with him!" A gruff voice roared. "Say something as stupid as that again and _I'll_ blow you up to fucking Kingdom come, Ratford!"

Tsuna heard a chorus of 'tsks'. "You've watched too many bloody Moses movies, mate."

"Have not!"

The voices rose with heated bickering. Tsuna lost track of the rest of the conversation; the loud pounding in his ears and the quick accents made the words difficult to understand. He wondered briefly if dying was always this noisy—

Wait, pounding?_ Wasn't that my heart just now…?_

"27th division of the RAF Regiment."

Almost immediately, the squabbling soldiers fell silent.

"In terms of shooting ability, all 10 soldiers in this operation are ranked within the 245th to the 306th place out of 2,000 soldiers in the SFSG. With the AK-47 that fires 600 rounds per minute and your target at a distance of 104 meters, you should have been able to kill him without a problem." [3]

Rankings? Tsuna's eyes snapped open. _I-it can't be…_

_PINGPINGPING!_

"RATFOOOORD!"

"B-but it wasn't me, sir!" Ratford shrieked. "The boy! IT'S THE BOY!"

True enough, the voice of a young boy cut clearly through the desert wind. "Wilbur Ratford. You are ranked 20,540 from 22,281 people in terms of intelligence. That makes you the least intelligent in your squadron of ten."

The squad erupted in laughter—"God's giving out statistics!"—"Quick, zap 'em on a rock!", only piping down to giggles at Ratford's despairing yell of "Shut up, you idiots!" Ratford's cloaked face was botched red at odd places; it made his freckles look like they were on fire.

"What kid are you talking about?" One of the soldiers at the back shouted. The song's booming bassline was abruptly cut off with an audible _click_. "The Mongolia boss is just dumbly standing there like he's pissed bricks!"

"Ah, it's Vongola…" Tsuna began to protest, but he choked on his words as the AK-47s winked menacingly at him.

"No, no, not him, _behind_ him!"

Tsuna whipped around, and screamed in agony as the winds flung hot sand against his face.

&

Half-blinded and choking, Tsuna shielded his eyes with an arm and squinted through the violent gale.

In the center of the storm was a small boy, probably not more than eight, with hair as brown as the sand about him and his cheeks plump and rosy with a slight blush. His eyes, however, were brightly twinkling, as if they mirrored galaxies of stars. (Actually, they were.) If you dared to look closely you could catch a glimpse of Saturn in his eyes, and maybe, finally, a peek at the special planet dear to this little boy's heart.

"Ey, what's that thing 'e's got in 'is 'and?"

Ah, of course, it is also extremely important to mention that, clutched tightly at the boy's side, was a book that was as thick as the boy's face and about a few centimeters larger in height. This book is no ordinary book: _this _would be the boy's unique, comprehensive 100% accurate and extremely invaluable ULTIMATE ranking book.

Tsuna, in the meantime, felt fresh tears gush down his cheeks.

"I can't believe it!" He wiped at his nose. "Fuuta, you _saved_ me!" (_Oh God I'm alive,_ his brain had added as an afterthought.)

Ranking Prince Fuuta smiled warmly. "Sorry, big brother, but I have to make this one last ranking," he said, his voice oddly high and misty. The sand around him stormed in thicker, furious gusts.

The boy looked skyward. "The Gobi desert is the fifth largest desert in the world," he declared. ("I din't know that!" said Ratford in awe.) Fuuta's eyes glazed over. "It was also where the second biggest dust storm took place." [4]

As if to emphasize the point, the wind's yowls became louder. Tsuna squeaked as he felt a sudden rumble from under his feet. It seemed as though the world had been upturned; clouds of dust stung his eyes and thunder boomed from underground. The sands shifted uneasily.

"It's spring." Fuuta was now slightly frowning. "Dust storms are seasonal, and they occur most frequently during this season."

"Blimey, this kid's pretty smart," a soldier remarked casually. There was a murmur of agreement and amazement among the squad members, except for one. Ratford was staring, slack-jawed, at something a couple of kilometers away. The blush on his cheeks was gone; in fact, there was little color left on his freckled face.

"Whatever's the fucking matter with you now?" The commander growled.

Ratford's voice was deathly quiet. "Judgment day, sir."

&

Tsuna could barely remember the commander screaming "_SHITTING FUCK!"_ before being swallowed by a vast, rolling sea of dust. The thundering and devastatingly _enormous _monster of the Gobi desert had finally awakened in terrible, vicious fury.

&

Tsuna could also barely remember hauling Fuuta on his back and running for dear life. A little more than three minutes had passed since his life was saved; it seemed Destiny really was intent on killing _him_ on this particular day in the future.

"Big brother, head for that direction!" Fuuta's voice was shrill in his ear. "My hovercraft's got to be around there somewhere!"

"You have a hovercraft?" Tsuna shrieked. He strained his eyes for anything that looked remotely safe. "Fuuta, are you sure we're going the right way?"

His anxiety swelled as Fuuta replied with a non-committal hum. OK, that was just as good as the sand swallowing them alive. The sand gusts howled loudly behind his back.

"H-hey, Fuuta, don't tell me you forgot where you _HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII_!"

Tsuna felt his legs leave ground for a split-second before hitting something solid with a loud _clang!_ Tsuna winced at the dull pain as his backside landed on something hard, cool and uneven.

_Metal grills._ He had landed on metal grills. And around him was an assortment of furniture: a few cushions to his right, a vending machine to his left, and a desk of controls to his front. By some stroke of luck, or what could be the punchline of Destiny's joke, they had fallen into Fuuta's previously missing hovercraft.

He looked up to see Fuuta staring at him with wide eyes, seemingly unhurt; the boy was able to jump from his back just in time.

The brief reprieve was cut off at a high-pitched wail and the shuffling sound of sand falling into the vehicle. "Big brother," Fuuta whispered, looking up at the open space above them.

Tsuna felt a shot of adrenaline jolt him back to his feet.

The pair made a mad scramble for the opening. Tsuna stuck out a hand and wrapped his fingers firmly around the latch; he felt Fuuta wrap tiny arms around his waist. Together, the pair pulled and strained at the door. The column of the dust storm peeped from the edges of the entrance.

"Come on," Tsuna gritted, sweat trailing down his cheek.

The metal gave a high-pitched groan, before finally swinging inward. Tsuna and Fuuta were thrown back against the floor as the door clicked into place, sealing the entrance and both their lives shut into safety.

&

[1] Yup, there were actually just ten. People tend to exaggerate during life-and-death situations, so we'll have to forgive even no-good Tsuna for that miscalculation.

[2] As he found it fitting for the occasion, Harvey Briggs of the 27th Division had brought along a Queen mixtape. The song playing in Tsuna's almost-death scene is entitled "Another One Bites the Dust".

[3] At this point, the author wishes to reiterate that the story and characters are all purely fictional. Although the RAF regiment and the SFSG are quite real.

[4] The author also wishes that this particular fact of life may be useful for you in the future.

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_Hey there. Thanks for taking time to read this fic. I've just returned from a 4-year break from writing. To be quite honest, I've no idea what to do with myself. I hope this hasn't been a complete waste of time. The Little Prince has been a favourite novel of mine since I was a kid, and Fuuta was just too perfect for this role. _

_**SemiPrecious** and **Ruby-san**, this chapter is for you._


End file.
